“You wanna set up a drop? I mean, I’m assuming you want your toys back.”

“You can take them to Mr Mel’s, as is your habit,” said the woman. “They will be tended to.” She picked up her briefcase from under the table and stood up, raising her hand to flag down a yellow cab heading south on Wabash. “Mr Villanueva?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get caught, don’t get curious, and don’t get careless. I don’t think you’d care to meet me under less collegial circumstances.” She turned, walked off, and slid into the back of the cab, and it pulled away.

Villanueva slid the envelope into his coat pocket, thinking for a second should he open it, count it, then thinking what difference would it make. He swallowed the last of the coffee and left what was left of the croissant on the table. Not much of an appetite all of a sudden.

CHAPTER 21 – CHICAGO

Lynch grabbed Bernstein at the office, and they headed over to MarCorp to talk to Eddie Marslovak about the waste hauling deal.

“Might want to bring up Andes Capital, too,” Bernstein said as Lynch flipped off some guy trying to muscle a Land Rover into their lane.

“What’s that?”

“Venture capital firm down in Miami. Seems to stick cash into MarCorp’s deals pretty regularly. I called a friend over at Morgan Stanley. Nothing official, but the Feds have started looking at Andes for money laundering. Think it might be washing dollars for the Medellin crowd.”

“Running a laundry for the Columbians and you call the place Andes Capital? Takes some cojones.”

“Or just dumb.”

“Yeah,” said Lynch. “Or that.”

Bernstein looked over, little crooked smile. Second or third time Lynch had seen that.

“Fuck’s up with you? Don’t like the clothes? Blame your friend Andre, he picked em out.”

“Hey, they look great. Just didn’t think you’d still be in them when you got to work the next day. Guess the date went OK.”

“Shut up, Slo-mo.”

“Hey, I’m a detective too, remember.”

Marslovak was already out from behind the desk when Lynch and Bernstein walked into his office, already on the black sofa, already with a drink. Marslovak dressed casual today, khaki slacks, deck shoes with no socks, white cable knit tennis sweater, probably a 3XL and stretched on him like a sausage casing.

“Thanks for seeing us on Saturday,” Lynch said.

“Told you I was trying to stave off divorce number three, Lynch. Whole secret to marital bliss is avoiding your wife.” Marslovak didn’t look happy. “Who’s your little friend?”

“Shlomo Bernstein,” said Bernstein. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everybody’s fucking sorry, nobody wants to leave my ass alone.” Marslovak gestured toward a second man. “This is Steve Heaton. He’s my attorney. I’ve invited him to join us for today’s festivities.”

Lynch looked at Heaton. Blond, six-two, eyes like a Stolichnaya bottle that had been in the freezer for a while. Navy chalk-stripe suit, extremely white shirt, red tie. Even his skin looked clean and pressed.

“You don’t need a lawyer, Eddie,” said Lynch.

“Such reassurances are always so comforting coming from legal authorities whose personal whims decide whether and to what extent the considerable resources of our government will inject themselves into a citizen’s life, detective,” said Heaton. “I will be present today and at any subsequent meetings. Clear?”

“Clear and remarkably articulate, counsel,” said Lynch.

“Thank you,” said Heaton with a cold smile.

“So?” said Marslovak.

“When we talked the other day, you said you couldn’t think of anybody off hand that might have a thing for you,” Lynch said.

“Didn’t say I couldn’t think of anybody,” said Marslovak. “Said I couldn’t think of anybody in particular.”

“Not even the anybody attached to the waste hauling rollup in New York?” Bernstein asked.

“Checking me out, Lynch? Waste hauling,” said Marslovak. “Few too many guys named Luigi. Few too few dollars in some of the pension plans when you work the books. Somebody’d blown my fat ass away during that a couple of years ago, I’d say you might have your boys. But wait till two years after the deal’s done, then blow away my mom on the stairs of the church? Make sense to you, Lynch?”

“It could,” said Lynch, “if there’s something you’re not telling us.”

“I think this interview is close to over, detective,” said Heaton. “My client is being fully cooperative, and now you are questioning his veracity. I warn you, I had better not start seeing hints in the paper about mob ties to MarCorp. Mr Marslovak’s enrichment resulting from the ensuing civil actions would strain your imagination.”

“So let’s talk about Andes Capital instead,” said Bernstein.

“Why?” said Marslovak.

“They’ve contributed capital to your last six deals,” said Bernstein. “Thirteen deals overall.”

“So what?” said Marslovak

“Feds are sniffing around them about money laundering,” said Lynch.

Heaton stepped between Bernstein and Marslovak.

“First of all, that’s immaterial,” said Heaton. “Since you’ve only heard they are being investigated for laundering money, I will assume they have not been convicted of, much less charged with, laundering money. Therefore, MarCorp has no reason, not legally and not even ethically, to consider that possibility. Second, it is not the responsibility of MarCorp, again, either legally or ethically, to investigate or enforce the laws regarding money laundering. We comply fully with all applicable reporting requirements. That is all we are required to do. Third, I can assure you that Andes’ various investments, which, if memory serves, are generally between $250,000 and $750,000, were made through appropriately documented channels. No one named Pedro showed up here with a suitcase full of twenties, detective.”

“So you’re saying that the money laundering charge against Andes may or may not be bullshit, but, in any event, it’s got nothing to do with you,” said Lynch.

“To paraphrase incompletely and less than wholly accurately, yes,” said Heaton.

“OK, look. Nobody’s saying Eddie did anything. This looks like a professional hit. That generally means money and criminal contacts. Eddie’s got one, some of the people he’s done business with have both.”

Heaton shrugged. “Detective, I assure you, if Mr Marslovak had an idea, you’d know. If he gets an idea, you will know. Now, are we through?”

Lynch nodded. “A pleasure, counsel. You know, you sure do talk pretty. You got any tips for me, anything I can do to raise my level of discourse?”

“A rose smells as sweet no matter the name, detective. And a buffoon sounds as coarse.”

“What do you think, Slo-mo,” said Lynch, looking at the lawyer. “Am I the rose or the buffoon?”

“I thought you were the ice cream man,” said Bernstein.

Lynch moved the Crown Victoria through the North Michigan Avenue traffic around Marslovak’s office like a blunt instrument. Bernstein was trying to time sips on his coffee with Lynch’s lane changes.

“How’d you like Eddie’s lawyer?” Lynch asked.

“Have to call my parents, see if they’re still looking to breed their Rottweiler. Pretty sure the vet said it can’t screw any lawyers, though. Not without a condom.”

“Yeah. So what’s your read on Eddie? Anything?”

“Definitely have to say he didn’t hire anyone to pop his mom. Seems too, I don’t know, volatile to set this up. Could see that lawyer doing it.”

“Get the sense he was holding anything back on the waste hauling thing or those Andes guys?”

“Got the sense the next time he holds something back will be the first.”

“Yeah,” Lynch answered. “Man, I wish I knew what she said in that confessional.”

“You Catholics and your secrets.”

“Careful, Slo-mo. Don’t make me bring the Cabalists into this.”

Back in the office, Lynch and Bernstein ran down what they got from Marslovak, which was nothing.